


Catharsis

by saavik13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: DarkHermione, Darkfic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Noncon sex, Serial Killer, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saavik13/pseuds/saavik13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’d saved <i>him</i> until I had my technique nearly perfect. I’d always thought him beautiful and the very idea of watching red slowly seep into those blond locks had me gasping.  By that point everyone knew a killer was targeting purebloods.  He knew what was happening as soon as his eyes blinked open in the semi-darkness....  But he was too beautiful to only have once."</p><p>Hermione finds a partner in the most unlikely of people - her favorite victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I may be slow to update this one. But I had to start posting it.  
> This is DARK and bloody and not at all my usual romance. In fact, I hesitate to even call it that. It's ugly and brutal and harsh. It's everything a darkfic should be and I have no idea what depths it will take us to.
> 
> Which, I suppose, is rather the point.

Someday, if I’m caught, I’m sure the experts will say it was post traumatic stress, or a need for revenge, or that I had a psychotic break. I’m sure they will find all manner of excuses to explain away why I became a killer. And, if I live to see the trial I’m sure I will tearfully agree with them and play up every past trauma, and contrive a few new ones for good measure. But the real truth of the matter is that I was born for this role. There was no dramatic turning point that changed me into what I am. I have always been this. If anything the events of my life have tempered my needs, honed them to a straight and lethal point that I have used to my best advantage. 

I like to think of myself as an artist. It’s trite, I know. So many of us have argued this and in the end perhaps that is what makes us killers. It’s not that we are evil - it is just that our eye understands the beauty in death, and we must fill the canvas of our world with our victims as surely as Michelangelo was driven to bestow his paint on the ceilings of Rome. 

I know I am unusual. There are not very many females that take up this particular vocation. I suppose it is because we are naturally, or societally, conditioned to love order. And death is rarely orderly. Oh, you can impose a pattern on it. You can plan out what you want it to look like and delay it, stretch it out to fit your mood. But the true beauty of it lies in the mess, in the sticky sweaty fight for it. The best laid plans can come to an abrupt halt if their heart goes out from a weakness no one saw. Or they could have the miraculous will to survive that pushes them past the endurance of a normal human body and forces you to find ever more delightful ways to test yourself against their will. It doesn’t appeal to everyone, this unpredictable struggle. Or, better yet, perhaps it is the risk involved that keeps them from giving in to the need to kill. The fear before you strike, the knowledge that it’s not a matter of if you are caught, but when. Knowing that everyone who knew you will turn against you and everything you’ve won in your normal, mundane existence, will be lost.

To be successful you have to be two people. The woman who smiles at her husband and waves at her children as they go off to school before returning to her orderly kitchen and her neatly arranged list of daily chores. And the woman who plans out each kill, stalks her victim till she knows the sound of their bare feet on their plush carpets and the smell of their sheets - the woman who relishes the adrenaline of the capture and finds release in a blade of a knife. These two are incompatible, but one must have the other. Without the balance the killer will spin out of control and the game will end too soon. And without the killer the mother will go mad. I love my babies, I do. But there are times when they cry or scream for me that the only way I can stand to go to them, to sooth their petty fears, is to picture the unfinished work I’ve left. With that in mind, I can be the tender kind soul they expect. I can offer sympathy and wisdom and advice with the best of them.

What could I possibly enjoy about taking a human life? I’m sure that’s the real question that’s bothering you. Your stomach is rolling with the thought, isn’t it? Let me ask you a question. Have you thought of it? Really let yourself imagine what it would be like to wrap your hands around someone’s throat and squeeze. To see the panic and anger in their eyes, feel them fight against you, and watch them lose. Does it make your breath quicken, your pulse jump? Can you admit that the idea thrills you, however lightly? We are all born killers. Society restrains the impulse, teaches us to channel our instincts into board rooms and baking contests. But in the wild part of our souls that most refuse to acknowledge, we all want blood.

It’s cathartic, watching a life slip away. You can see every emotion known to man pass through their eyes. In the rattle and rasp of their last breath is every symphony written. And the slide of their blood under your fingers is a language more elemental than words.

I suppose the truly surprising part is that I’ve found a companion in this. It wasn’t easy and I never looked for one. To be honest, I’d intended to kill him. Perhaps one day I will. But there was something about him that caught my attention. 

I must admit I find a sexual thrill in playing with them. I am in love with the way the knife glides along exposed flesh. How it takes just a little extra pressure to break through the skin, but once you are through it goes like silk. The pure red of the muscle as the track fills with blood, the slight catch of the blade as you pass through tendon. The hitch when you strike bone and glide along the edge. It is the most sensual dance imaginable, and I get wet even thinking about it. I can organism from the remembered feel of it alone. I nearly blacked out once from the pleasure as an arterial burst splashed across my face.

The first few were too rushed. I didn’t know yet how to draw it out. And I was angry, so angry with them. They had hurt me and I did want revenge. But it didn’t take long, by the end of the second one actually, before I discovered how much I liked it. It wasn’t about revenge after that; it was about that blissful exhaustion after I was finished. It was the numb ecstasy that would stay with me for days afterword that drove me on. I started experimenting, learning what I liked, what would please me. I was a virgin again and this was a totally new form of love making. By the third any guilt that had lingered in me was transformed to craving.

I love watching their eyes but I don’t care for their screams. I usually silence them with a spell so I can talk to them as I design their deaths. Each body speaks to me in it’s way, like marble to a sculptor, and I need the silence to guide my hand. Once I find the right paths for my blade I tend to talk as I work. And it’s just not the same without an audience. So I’ve gotten very good at spelling them awake, holding them for a few moments after physical death, their spirits bound to Earth in tendrils of magic, so they can watch and see the art I’ve created. By the time the aurors find them it’s spoiled. It really is shameful that the two of us are the only ones to see it in all its glory.

I’d saved _him_ until I had my technique nearly perfect. I’d always thought him beautiful and the very idea of watching red slowly seep into those blond locks had me gasping. By that point everyone knew a killer was targeting purebloods. He knew what was happening as soon as his eyes blinked open in the semi-darkness. 

I like to slowly undress them as they lie there. It’s part of the sensuality for me, running my hands over their clothed chests, undoing each button and pulling the cloth back before ripping the last of the seams, freeing them of the last armor they have. He was’t the first to have an erection - I suppose it’s somewhat natural for a male to take such actions from a woman as a signal for a physical arousal no matter the danger. Most are in denial anyway, their weak pathetic minds conjuring some other explanation for their predicament than what they have to know is coming. But his was different. I could see in his eyes that he knew what I was planning and he accepted it. He understood, and he was still as turned on as I was.

I didn’t silence him. We talked as I worked. I ended up lying next to him as he slowly bleed. His hair did look glorious as it swam in a bath of his own blood. It wasn’t until his breath was shallow and overly quick that he finally gave into the blood loss and his organ drifted down to lay dormant. I was sad to see it flag. Perhaps that is why I healed him. Why I left him on the doorstep of the ministry and why I made sure he would last until someone got him to Mungos. He was too beautiful to only have once.


	2. Chapter Two

“Mum, have you seen my quidditch gloves?” Rose called out loudly from the second story.

“Try behind the couch.” Hermione shouted back and ducked as her youngest Hugo accidently sent his broom flying across the living room. “Hugo!” Hermione yelled in warning. “If you can’t control that broom you have no business taking it to Hogwarts.”

“Mum,” Hugo whined. “It’s a prototype. Dad got it for me special. It’s just a little buggy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and counted to ten. “Your father may have gotten it for you directly from Nimbus but we both know what happened the last time he called in a favor from a broom company. And you, mister, have more sense than your uncle George I hope.”

“Aw, mum, George wasn’t hurt that bad.” Hugo protested, clutching his broom tightly to his chest. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

“You’re fifteen, Hugo.” Hermione sighed and rubbed tiredly at her eyes. “You’re old enough to know how to handle your own safety. I needn’t remind you what I was doing at your age. Yet continually you seem to put little thought into your actions. Neither you nor Rose have demonstrated any of the common sense I would have expected from my offspring.” Hermione looked up tiredly and scowled at Hugo as he tried not to grin at her. “Off with you.” She muttered. “If you break your neck on that thing I don’t want to hear one word of complaint out of you! And you’d better not come back to haunt me either.”

“Thanks, mum!” Hugo grinned and hugged her. “You know I’d only do it to keep you company.” He wheeled away before she could smack him and bounded up the stairs to finish his packing.

“You have the oddest way of talking to your children.” Molly Weasley admonished as she came in form the kitchen, a dish rag dangling from one shoulder.

Hermione waved off the comment. “Molly, you may have had more children than I did, but I tell you, Rose and Hugo have the worst of myself and Ron in them. They are hard headed, opinionated, and virtually unstoppable. We’ve breed a super-annoyance team. If you had to put up with them for the entire summer you’d be saying the same thing. I gave birth to monsters.”

“And the best beaters Gryffindor’s had since the twins.” Rose quipped as she trotted down the stairs. “I almost hate to graduate.”

“If you don’t, than the Harpies will retract that contract.” Hermione reminded her. “And you know I’d prefer it if you took an apprenticeship somewhere instead of devoting your life that stupid game. It’s bad enough your father insists on continuing with it.”

“Mum,” Rose whined, “how many times are you going to argue about that? There’s plenty of time for me to do it after my quidditch days are over. I’ve only got maybe 20 or 30 years to play. I need to make my mark while I can.”

“Ron said that and your father is still playing.” Hermione complained with no small amount of ill concealed bitterness. “But I won’t go over it all again. I respect your choice even if I don’t agree with it. Just make sure you study for your NEWTS regardless. I won’t have a daughter of mine scoring below the top 10 percent.”

“Of course.” Rose smiled and hugged her mother. “Are you seeing us to the station?”

“No.” Hermione sighed and motioned towards Molly. “Your grandmother is taking you. I’m afraid I’ve got to finish up that deposition for the Merlock case.” Hermione lied smoothly. “But I want you to owl me as soon as the sorting feast is over. I want to know you made it safely.”

“Mum, what do you think can happen to us between Kings Cross and Hogwarts?” Hugo asked, rolling his eyes as he came back down the stairs.

Molly huffed. “Young man, your mother knows far too well what can happen. And with all those killings last year, well, everyone is on edge.”

“Funny how they only seem to happen during school.” Rose observed. 

“Maybe the killer has to wait until his kids are out of his hair.” Hermione joked. “Did you get everything packed? All your homework where you can find it? Robes for the feast on top?”

“Yes, mum.” Her two children answered, grinning. 

“Uncle Harry will be on the train with you. I want you to remember he’s your professor now, not your favorite uncle.” Hermione reminded them as she straightened Hugo’s shirt and brushed down a lock of his unruly hair. She moved over to Rose and tugged her ponytail once to straighten it. “Alright. I suppose that’s as presentable as I can make you. Be careful?” She asked once more, a hint of her motherly concern tinting the words.

“Mum, we’ll be safe as can be.” Rose professed. “It’s you I worry about, especially with dad out on tour.”

“Oh I can take care of myself.” Hermione smiled and gently moved her family towards the door. “I’m much more lethal than you think.”

* * *

“How are you feeling today, Thornfinn?” Hermione asked, her voice oddly light. The wizard was bound securely to the table, his naked body marked with scabbed over wounds and she pressed into one until blood oozed up from the gash and he thrashed against his bonds. “The kiddies are all off you know. And Ron is going to be away for another week at least.” Hermione smiled wickedly and turned his face to force him to look at her. “Which means we have all the time in the world to get properly acquainted at last. I’ve been sooo neglecting you these last two weeks. But, I promise, I will make it up to you.”

There was a flash of silver and Hermione closed her eyes, savoring the feel of the warmth returning to her skin. Thornfinn tried to scream, but no sound came from his spelled throat and all he could do was watch in horror as his blood spilled in a carefully orchestrated arch. It splashed across his captor’s chest and he watched in sick fascination as it ran in rivulets over her bare skin. 

“I’ve missed this.” Hermione purred.


	3. Chapter Three

“Hermione, love, you really do need to take it easy.” Molly Weasley admonished her daughter-in-law in a kind voice. “The children are growing up right before your eyes and you are missing it with all this work.”

“Molly,” Hermione sighed and rubbed tiredly at her eyes before waving her wand and sending the dishes flying into the sink. Dinner had been a quick thing, Molly dropping in unexpectedly. She’d not planned on doing much and had to scramble to provide anything her mother-in-law would consider close to a meal. The effort after the long day of work was nearly too much. “The children are at Hogwarts. It hardly matters if I work 10 hour days or 14. They aren’t here. Ron’s not here. It’s just me and Crooks and trust me, my cat’s gotten too old to want to play for hours on end. He just wants fed and to be left alone in his warm bed. Come to think of it, that’s pretty much all I want too.”

Molly clucked. “Just because the children are at school doesn’t mean you’re work is over, dear. When is the last time you wrote them a letter? Or sent them a cake?”

Hermione blinked at the older witch in confusion. “Why do I need to send them cake? You send them two a week. If I started in as well they’d be in a sugar comma by the end of the day. And I write them twice a month, on the 1st and the 15th.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you, dear.” Molly shook her head sadly. 

\---- break ----

His hair shown brightly in the moonlight and it was no trouble at all to spot him moving quietly among the garden foliage. The tall sprigs of fern and exotic greenery were starting to flag in the coming cold, but still held enough of their former magnificence to seem as if they were walking through a fairyland. Well, to be fair – one was walking, the other stalking.

Hermione moved silently, her steps carefully spelled silent and her personal wards dancing millimeters from her skin. No hint of her scent or sound escaped her tightly woven magics. She could only be betrayed by disturbing one of the green fronds or if he caught sight of her directly – her disillusionment would handle any accidental glance. This one she’d waited too long for to risk losing him by some chance mistake. And taking him from his own garden was too delicious to pass up. 

For years now the Ministry had been trying to learn the identify of the Puritan Ripper – a moniker that still made her cringe when she heard it. No one knew who was targeting the most elite of Pureblood society – or why – but those from the Order had their suspicions. Every murder victim had been a Death Eater and while the majority of them were slashed and torn until unrecognizable, the small section of their forearms that bore the last hints of the Dark Mark were always clear of disfigurement. Hermione made sure of that.

Of course, now that both the Order and the Ministry were involved in trying to find the illusive killer, she had to be doubly careful when taking a victim. The beautiful part of it all was that no pureblood could run or hide from her – not without looking guilty. For if only Death Eaters were being targeted than no one had anything to fear but them. To keep up appearances they had to stay in society – keep walking around and going to their work and their parties. No one would accept Ministry security because to do so would be to admit what they had been.

Malfoy was different. His guilt had been well known, but his last minute conversion to the light during the final moments of the Battle of Hogwarts had been enough to grant him freedom. Harry had testified for Mrs. Malfoy, but while he’d never intended to help the patriarch, his words for the weeping distraught woman had carried over to the rest of the family by proxy. So father and son had both been released under close Ministry watch along with their mother. But, as the years progressed, attentions had drifted away. No one seemed to remember that the cool and elegant man had once been a ruthless terrorist. 

But Hermione remembered and now, after all these years, she was going to do something about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Work delayed me...

“Did you hear?” Ron called out as he dropped his quidditch gear by the door. “Old Malfoy’s gone missing, from his own bloody house!” Ron flopped down onto the living room sofa, grinning. “Do you think the Ripper finally snagged him?”

Hermione sighed and put down her book. “Ron, its Malfoy. For all we know he just got tired of living with the Ministry guards tracking him and has made off for Argentina or wherever it is dark wizards go when they disappear.”

“Argentina?”

“Nazi’s went there.” Hermione shrugged. “And by the way, of _course_ I heard. I’m one of the team leaders investigating the deaths. Any time a pureblood wizard goes missing we are notified.”

“And you didn’t owl me?” Ron complained, toeing off his muddy boots and letting them fall to the carpet. “I mean, this is big ‘Mione. It’s _Malfoy_.”

“It’s supposed to be confidential.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “I suppose Harry told you?”

Ron sighed dramatically. “No, he’s as bad as you about keeping things close to his vest. I ran into Oliver at the pub and he’d heard it from Sharon in accounting who heard it from…”

Hermione tuned her husband out and returned her focus to her book, seething quietly. Ron had been scheduled to be gone for another two weeks but an injury to his shoulder wasn’t setting properly and the coach had sent him home to St. Mungos for treatment. He’d owled that morning and her plans had to be put on hold. 

A tap on her shoulder returned her focus to the red headed wizard. “Hermione, I asked you a question.” He looked at her, puzzled for a moment. “You seem a little out of it, love. Everything all right?”

Hermione forced a smile. “Of course it is, dear. I just… these murders are starting to wear on me is all. It’s hard to investigate them as if….”

Ron smiled understandingly. “It’s hard to try and find the person responsible when you aren’t sure if you want to arrest them or thank them?”

Hermione looked way in feigned guilt. “Exactly. And, oh Ron,” she turned back, making her eyes glisten just slightly, “I feel so terrible that I even thought it. I am supposed to be working for justice, as part of the criminal prosecutorial team. I can’t let my personal feelings and bias affect my work.”

“And you never would, love.” Ron swiftly moved to embrace her. “Your work is impeccable, Hermione. I know you’d never let anything distract you from the important things.”

\----break---

“Wakey wakey.” Hermione hummed and stroked a strand of blond hair back from his face. Her prone victim stirred slightly and slowly blinked his eyes open. “Now, I’m sure you are smart enough to realize what’s happening,” Hermione purred. She walked around the head of the table, trailing her hand gently along his body from one should to the other. His eyes tracked her movements, but his limbs only twitched infectively against the binding potion that held him motionless. His skin was dimpled from the cold and Hermione smirked as she saw him shiver slightly – the most her potion would let him do.

He tried to speak, but when no sound immerged his clear grey eyes narrowed. Hermione ran one finger over the remains of a curse scar on his left hand and appraised his form critically. “I do have to hand it to you, Lucius. Most of your lot have gone rather to seed these last few years. I suppose, as exercise plans go, Cruciatus punishments are a rather affective isometric regimen. The sudden absence of it after your Lord fell would take a tool on the waist line. You, dear Lucius, seem to have maintained yours. Pickup Quidditch with your grandsons?” She smiled gently. “Hasn’t done much for Ron honestly. Perhaps I should have you write out your secret before I get to work. No? Oh well. Can’t blame a witch for trying.”

She slowly opened the catch on his robe and pushed the material to one side, savoring the feel of the heavy expensive cloth covering the firm muscle. “Are these from that little tailor shop in London that Draco’s always crowing about? Or do you have your own posh establishment tucked away in some remote pureblood stronghold? It’s a shame, really, that most of the wizarding world has been neglecting robes of late. I’ve always found them to be rather fascinating garments.” She moved to the next catch and undid the clasp. “Of course, trousers are rather practical items. Would have saved several embarrassing moments for the boys over the years.” Hermione stopped for a moment and shook her head. “I often wonder if James Potter hadn’t pulled that prank on Snape if he’d have avoided falling in with you lot – and how that might have changed history. All for want of trousers.” She shook her head and went back to her task, slowly undressing the Malfoy lord.

“It does make my job easier, though.” Hermione mused as she brushed the fine cloth of the robes completely open to reveal the crisp white of his expensive linen shirt and pants. She flicked the bow that tied his silk hose to the braies. “I still haven’t gotten use to the way wizards are so uncaring about little things like bows and ribbon. Muggle men would feel totally emasculated by even the thought of little pastel ribbons holding up silk hose, yet here we are – Lucius Malfoy, probably one of the most ‘manly’ wizards around and you’re sporting peach ribbons with perfect little bows tying your underwear.” Hermione pulled the bow and one of the little ribbons slid free. “I suppose it’s all a cultural thing, and to your lot ribbons and bows and soft colors are no less masculine than anything else. Dad always laughed about the ‘dresses’ you purebloods wore anyway. Mr. Weasley’s robes were always chuckled about – and not because of their shabbiness. Although, I always did wonder why Mrs. Weasley didn’t just sew new robes and save the money of the tailor. At least the children would have been in something that didn’t look thread bare. But, I’ve learned not to question Molly about anything parenting related. She has one way of doing things and it’s just far easier to not get her going. Can you tell me? Is it considered even more shameful to make your own than to wear worn out used?” Hermione undid the other bows and then slowly rolled the stockings off. “These are very fine silk. Did you have them imported?”

Lucius glared at her and Hermione shrugged. “Don’t worry, Lucius. I’m not stealing them. I’ll have them delivered safe to Draco as your next of kin. I always do.” She smiled and moved back up to his head and smoothed his hair again. “I couldn’t have him mistaking what we are about, now could I? I want him to know what is happening here, Lucius. To live every second of the next few days or weeks knowing what I’m doing to you. I want to walk through the Ministry, to sit across from him in endless meetings, to see his carefully hidden despair and grief and horror. He won’t show it – you taught him too well – but I’ll see it because I’ll know exactly where to look. You’ll show me with every flinch and every silent scream. I will catalog them on the father and see them reflected in the son.” 

Hermione yanked his hair harshly, pulling his head up and back forcing his eyes to connect to hers. “I’ve been practicing just for you, Lucius.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes on this chapter:  
> 1\. There's a very nice run down on likely clothing for Snape at http://neotoma.dreamwidth.org/99007.html that I used as a basis for wizarding attire. I maintain, based on JRK's description of the incident with Snape by the lake, and the old man at the World Cup, that wizarding robes do not have trousers (or pants - depending on your geography).   
> 2\. Yes, Hermione is asking questions Lucius can't answer. She is, after all, the daughter of dentists.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hermione!” Draco called out as she rounded the corner. She slowed her steps and let the blond wizard catch up to her. “Can I talk to you?” He asked, slightly breathless from his less than dignified run through the Ministry.

 

“Of course.” Hermione smiled politely and motioned him towards the empty conference room across the hall. She closed the door gently behind them after he entered and turned to him with sad eyes. “I heard the package arrived this morning. I’m so sorry, Draco.”

 

He slumped into a chair, his face showing his despair openly now that they were alone. “I don’t know what to do, Hermione. Until now I’d hoped that he was just missing, maybe run off to Merlin knew where, perhaps with that secretary of his that mother banned from the manor. But when his clothes arrived this morning… we all know what that means and I just… I know my father wasn’t exactly a good man, but he was always good to mother and I. And during the war he tried to keep us away from Voldemort as much as he could but we were all powerless, prisoners in our own home by that point. Since then he’s lived quietly, out of the way, not bothered anyone. I just don’t know what else we could have done! Why is this maniac targeting him?”

 

“As near as we can tell the Ripper is targeting anyone with the Dark Mark.” Hermione sat down across from Draco and took his hand. “Draco, I know you didn’t take it by choice, but you may want to consider going into hiding. If they could take your father, they could take you.”

 

“They? Do you think there’s more than one?” Draco shivered in his chair. “I didn’t want the Mark. I didn’t have a choice!”

 

“We are running out of former Death Eaters.” Hermione stated grimly. “Despite our efforts we haven’t found a single suspect. You’ve been on the team for the last 6 months, you’ve seen the evidence. I know the Minister would frown on me saying it, but I don’t see how it could be a single wizard doing this. He’s snatching highly trained wizards right out from under massive wards and security measures without leaving a trace. There’s got to be at least two people involved. And Draco, we both know how few people see a distinction in how you got the Mark. I don’t want to lose you too.”

 

Draco took a shaky breath. “At least it’s just us they are going after, not our families. I couldn’t bare the thought that Scorpio might get hurt because of what I did.” He turned a precarious smile to her. “Who would have thought we’d end up partners in the MoM, or friends, all those years ago. I know you are doing everything you can Hermione, I know. I’m just… I’m scared.” He admitted, his head lowering. “Father would have a fit if he heard me say that, but I’m terrified.”

 

“I know.” Hermione consoled him, a hand on his shoulder. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh you should have seen him, Lucius. It was epic.” Hermione smiled darkly as she sat on the table next to her bound victim. Lucius was bleeding slowly from several cuts but otherwise in good condition still and he glared up at her. “I almost felt bad for him. I’ve never seen Draco so dejected.”

 

Hermione trailed a hand over his brow and smoothed the hair down gently. “Now, normally I’d leave you to wonder but I owe it to your son to put you at ease. I have no intention of harming Draco. He was hardly a Death Eater, Mark or no. You are the last of my victims, Lucius. The last pureblood that made my list. It’s a pity really; I’ve enjoyed this little endeavor more than I can rightly say. Not sure what I will do with my time. We will have to make this count.”

 

Hermione eased the blade over his skin and watched the line of red blossom up. She turned to watch his eyes and his expression caught her off guard. His eyes were half closed, his mouth hanging open just a bit, and when he met her gaze there was arousal in the grey depths of his eyes. She twisted her wrist, deepening the cut as she drug it further down his thigh, holding his stare, and out of the corner of her eye she watched as he hardened and his breath quickened. “Well now.” Hermione whispered, and he shuddered. “This is a surprise, Lucius. I know I get off on this, and I assume you probably would enjoy it from my vantage point as well, but from yours? You are a delightful.” She smiled and pressed her hand into the fresh wound. The potion holding him still had loosened just enough to allow him to arch slightly against the table making her laugh.

 

She kept it up for an hour – tiny cuts, beautiful bright red lines on his alabaster skin. But it was getting late, and Ron was expecting her home, and she knew she’d have to leave him soon. On the last cut she leaned over, running her naked breasts over the trails of blood and savoring the heat of his life spreading over her skin. She couldn’t help but run her tongue over that first cut, licking the clotted blood and reopening it. He shuddered harder, his eyes still tracking her, dark now with lust and need. His cock was hard, as red as the blood on skin, and a delightful trail of moister had gathered and leaked down the side. It took everything in her not to tease him directly but there simply wasn’t time.

 

As she eased herself off the table she heard him sigh and when she looked back to him he mouthed “please”, his head tipped back and his long neck exposed. Hermione cleaned her knife and debated with herself. Finally she grabbed the nutrition potion, laced with the additives to keep him magically bound to her table, and walked back to his side.

 

She brushed his hair back off his face gently and she couldn’t help but smile as he turned his face into her palm. “Are you being so delicious thinking I’ll spare you?” She asked gently, still touching him. Of course he couldn’t answer and Hermione frowned as he tried to speak but couldn’t. “I never let them speak you know. But you,” Hermione flicked her wrist and wandlessly undid the spell that kept him silent. “I suspect you have something interesting to say.”

 

He licked his lips and gazed up at her, choosing his words careful. His voice was gruff, lacking it’s normal smoothness from the disuse, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Hermione Granger.”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s Weasley now, as you well know.”

 

He smiled darkly. “No, that creature that walks through the Ministry, smiling at all the simmering idiots, that goes to bed and lets that buffoon rut on top of her, is Hermione Weasley. You, my dear, are entirely different. I always thought I saw something in you, all those years ago. Something in your eyes as you fought my sister-in-law. You’re a fair sight better at this than she was you know. She couldn’t hold herself back from the kill. But you savor it, like an artist should.”  
  
“Have you been admiring my work, Lucius?” Hermione asked crossing her arms and smirking. “I’m afraid it’s rather spoiled by the time the paper gets there to take the photos.”

 

“But I have enough experience to reconstruct it.” Lucius stated matter of factly. “Talent always recognizes genius.”

 

“Hmmm.” Hermione let a wicked grin show on her face. “If you think comparing yourself and your fellow Death Eaters to me will cause some kind of change of heart and I’ll let you go, you are very mistaken.”

 

“No, I know you won’t be swayed so easily.” Lucius admitted. “The difference between us is simple but meaningful. I never cared who I tortured as long as I got the pleasure of it. No, you require the victim to be guilty. You find greater pleasure in it the worse their crimes, I suspect.”

 

“Justice feeding sadism.” Hermione agreed before tipping his head back and pouring the potion down his throat. “But I must be going, Lucius. And I want you to rest while I’m gone. We’ve much more play left before the end.”

 

He swallowed and smirked up at her. “I will look forward to it.”

 

 


	6. Chapter Six

“We can’t just wait for the body to turn up.” Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, frowned at the table full of his best aurors and legal team. “We need to uncover the identify of this Ripper. He keeps his victims for weeks sometimes. It’s possible Lucius Malfoy is still alive.”

“I’d say it’s likely.” Hermione voiced from his right side and the room turned to look at her. “But I’d like for us to consider the possibility that this isn’t an isolated individual. Malfoy was taken from his own manor, a manor with some of the most extensive wards and protections in the entire wizarding world, let alone Britain. When Draco gave me the tour after the kidnapping I counted over three dozen hereditary blood ward layers that I could feel without even going near the warding stone. I couldn’t even get close to that place without alarms going off and with the exception of Bill Weasley I’m the best ward infiltration expert the Ministry has. I find it highly unlikely a single individual managed to catch Lord Malfoy unaware in his own house. There had to be a team.”

The others frowned and Draco slumped in his seat. “A team?” Kingsley asked, agitated. “That would account for the brashness of some of the abductions, as well as the difficulty. But the wound patterns on the bodies suggest a single attacker.”

“So one person does the slicing and dicing while the other does the catching.” Hermione shrugged. “That doesn’t mean there aren’t a half dozen planning the damn thing. I know many of you fought in the war. Tell me, do you think these last few would have gone down peacefully? I saw Malfoy dual – I’ve been on the wrong end of that wand. Let me tell you there’s no way a single person took him.”

“She’s right.” Draco spoke up, his face paler than normal. “My father hasn’t lost his edge. He still trains daily. Somehow he was attacked and taken from his own garden without firing a single spell. Not only that, but there is a very powerful blood tracing spell on each member of the Malfoy family and I can’t access it. All I can tell is he’s still alive, and hasn’t left the British mainland. It would take power as great as Potter’s to block that spell and we all know he isn’t behind this. It has to be several wizards working together.”

“Or several witches. You can’t just discount us.” Hermione added. “We keep saying wizard, but for all we know it’s a female doing this.”

“Oh come on, ‘Mione. No witch is capable of this kind of torture.” Neville Longbottom chuckled. “We know how important witch rights are, but this is one area you don’t want equality in.”

~-~

There was something magical about the feel of warm blood splashing onto exposed skin and Hermione reveled in the feel of it enough that she’d taken to working naked sometime during her third kill. At first it had felt odd, letting them see her, but after a while it became part of the torture. The wickedness of it was a lovely added quality that she enjoyed thinking about whenever Ron was being particularly annoying.

But Lucius was different. As she worked with him, his enjoyment – so openly displayed – made the acts extra erotic. In fact, Hermione had even gone so far as to openly play with herself as he watched, something she’d not had the courage to do with the others. Leaving him hard and wanting at the end, after she satisfied herself with his pain and her own fingers was simply delicious.

She’d left the spell off and he talked to her – his voice hitching and wobbling as she left red trails of agony across his body. It seemed the more she cut him the more aroused he became and she suspected that at some point he might actually come from her knife alone. It became a bit of a goal for her in fact.

But he was weakening. Nutrient potions and blood replenishers could only keep him going so long. Being kept immobile was also taking a toll on him physically and she knew eventually his heart would just give out.

The thought actually made her a little sad.

Part of it was the knowledge that he really was the last. Part, she could barely admit to herself, was that she’d miss him.

Oh she didn’t _like_ him. He was still Malfoy. But she did love playing with him.

She’d miss the way his blood colored his blond hair. She’d miss his soft muffled cries. She’d miss the small jerks of his hips that would happen as the potion loosened towards the end of a session. She’d miss the way he looked at her, full of lust and passion and promised violence should he manage to get free. She’d miss the feel of him under her knife, the splash of his blood, the hitch in his breathing.

She’s not sure which of these things is what makes her decide to do it, but she just can’t bare the thought of never having him again. 

The Black library at Grimmauld is an endless fountain of delightful spells and while she’s sure Harry wonders why she spends so much time there it’s worth it. At the back of a tome she’s fairly certain is bound in human skin she finds it – the perfect spell she can alter just enough for her purposes. 

It takes her three days and six rather nasty muggles she picked up trying to rape a girl in London, but she perfects it just as Lucius is starting to slip away. 

He can barely focus his eyes on her as she undoes all the potions and spellwork that kept him her prisoner. He’s too weak to speak and she runs a gentle finger over his parched lips. “Shh, Lucius. It’s almost over.” She kisses him softly, her hand playing with his flaccid penis. He’s too far gone for it rise and she misses it –wants to tease him for longer, has more ideas, and this is the only way.

The words are in Old English, not Latin, and he’s just aware enough to widen his eyes as she starts. He’s unconscious before she’s half way through and his heart is slowing faster than the words are leaving her. She can’t stop though. If she does, it’s all over. She can’t do anything until the spell is finished and she forces herself to concentrate. As soon as the last word ends she spells him clean with a vicious slice of her wand, washing all traces of her and her dungeon off him and with another flick he’s gone.

~-~

Lucius Malfoy doesn’t expect to ever wake again – much less to wake to his son’s worried face and the slightly green tinged ceiling tiles of St. Mungos. The last thing he saw was the surprisingly gentle faced of Granger leaning over him, clothed in the gossamer fabric of a Celtic ritual, and murmuring the words to a spell so dark his own father would have bulked to preform it. Somewhere nearby three people had died to power that spell and he admired her for having the magical stamina to preform it alone. It was normally done by a full coven, at minimum a triad. 

It’s disturbing to not be able to answer their questions. Aurors and healers are in and out of his room, Draco never leaving his side, and he has no words to explain his abduction or his torture. There’s a full recounting of his injuries in the healer’s notes, but whenever he tries to explain something, anything, about the time Granger held him all thought simply leaves him. He can’t write it, he can’t speak it, even Legilimency doesn’t work.

It’s truly masterful, the secrecy spell she’s woven into the very cells of his body. 

They keep him for three whole weeks to heal him, to try and break the dark spell that keeps him from giving testimony. When she arrives, with her team of investigators, he can’t even look at her significantly, can’t give even one blink or nod that would indicate that there was something off about her. 

And Granger doesn’t do a damn thing to tip her hand either.

The witch is perfectly professional, even compassionate, as she questions him. Even when they are left alone it’s as if she’s really Hermione Weasley – Ministry employee, not the dark wonderful creature that has killed countless wizards over the last few years. He’s admired her work for ages, even as her victim he was impressed by it, but now he truly respects her. She’s the entire world fooled, a prefect dual life that would make any Slytherin impressed.  
They finally send him home. Narcissa is fawning in her fake way as usual and he fucks her just for something to do – harder than he would normally – it doesn’t help in the slightest but it does convince her to leave him alone.

Draco is a good son, caring. He doubles the protections on the manner and offers to hire more guards.

It won’t do any good, Lucius knows but can’t say. She’s got his blood, his semen. She can come and go from the manor at will – can do anything she likes to him from any distance in fact. She’s that good – and has that much control over him.

He fucks Narcissa even harder the second night back and for a moment she looks at him with something approaching real concern. She apparates to Paris later to see her lover though, so he’s fairly certain she got over it.

Granger will be back for him. He knows it – feels it in his bones. There’s something there, between them, he felt it– she surely did to because he’s alive and the Ripper has never left a victim alive. It trills him, the possibilities, and while Draco frets and aurors make promises he looks forwards to her visit. She’ll be even more magnificent this time.


End file.
